I’ve gone 5 days without showering, I think I have finally passed the “adjustment” phase in my culture shock experience. It’s like a right of passage- the more local I become the more I feel comfortable working in Gulu, Uganda.

Access to water in northern Uganda is an experience in itself. It affects everything, and every aspect of daily life. It’s about more than just taking a shower or washing your face – water shapes culture.
The water in Gulu District comes from a dam in Bardege about 2-3kms away and captured into tanks, treated, and then distributed to the households. Sometimes this process doesn’t always go as planned.

When my roommate Laura and I moved into our new place, water flowed like a secular arm of the river Nile. Freely. We were so thrilled at all of the amenities of our new house; we decided to have a party.
I will save the details of our intercultural Canadian BBQ for another post, but let’s just say Laura and I are great cooks. We hosted about twenty people that night, and with the party came an enormous amount of dishes. We hid them in the kitchen to forget about until the next day.
The next day arrived.
I stumbled into the kitchen to the aftermath.
I carefully maneuvered my hand through a mountain of pots and turned on small bronze tap. Nothing happened. I turned it again in the other direction. Nothing happened. This isn’t good.
So, like a typical Canadian little-miss-fix-it I felt the urge to check every tap, the toilet, the shower, and anything that might have water flow around the house. I had to see if it was really off- or just a blocked tap/plumbing issue. After a few minutes of CSI-like investigation, I realized the simple answer- no water.
Laura was still sleeping, so I snuck out of the house.
Throughout the course of the day, I managed to recruit some friends for dish duty in exchange for more of Laura’s cooking.
When I returned to the house with the troop of expat women, we decided to send the young ones with the giant yellow jerry cans to the local borehole. The ‘young ones’ included a Washington D.C socialite named Brianna, and myself. Once we arrived at the borehole, I managed to schmooze my way into the line admits a group of locals, mostly mothers and children. Brianna and I knew what we had to do. We filled the 20-liter jerry cans to the brim. I didn’t want to have to make a return trip.
The two of us struggled up the hill in our flip-flops, while the group of locals watched our every step. I think the kids got a kick out of the ‘muzungos’ (whites) lugging around the heavy jugs and spilling all over our selves. After a few different attempts, I think the one-handed-lift-while-speed-walking approach worked the best.
We reached the house, dropped off the water, and the rest of the recruits began washing all of the dishes.

After that unforgettable experience, I realized two things: how much water affects my life, and how much it weighs.

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